Calling in the Night
by AmputeeTrainee
Summary: France has developed a bad habit of calling and texting Russia at night, not that Ivan minds. He knows though that the other isn't exactly looking for polite conversation, but he's willing to indulge the Frenchman. Russia/France, hinted FrUK and US/UK.


Calling in the Night

* * *

For a moment, in the depths of sleep, he swears that there was an insect in his bedroom. It has to be a bee or a fly or something. The buzzing is soft, but persistent. An unintelligible mummer passes Ivan's lips as he swats a limp hand in the air, trying to wave the noise away. The pest remains. He cracks one eye open and then the other. There is no bug; instead there is a much different nuisance. The telltale light of his cellphone flashes in time with its vibrating.

He stares at the little phone on his nightstand. Unsure whether to answer it, ignore it, or whip it at the wall. Modern technology was so astounding yet so bothersome at the same time. He is constantly tethered, like all the other nations these days, to this plastic ball and chain. Putin and Medvedev always pester him when he ignores calls and text messages. They no longer believe him when he claims it broke or was faulty. This is his seventeenth cellphone in less than four years; they can't all be defective after all. While his countrymen, particularly his younger generations, have jumped on the craze Ivan had declined to get one of the little phones until he'd been forced.

Frowning, he reaches for the cellphone that had grown silent by this time. He flips it open with the pad of his thumb. Narrowing his eyes at the harsh light of the screen, Ivan blinks a few times to adjust his vision as he scans the little display. He has one new message. From Francis. Ivan sighs.

The Frenchmen had developed a bad habit of texting and calling him at odd hours, usually at night. This wasn't to say he didn't like conversing with Francis, quite the opposite really. Ivan honestly enjoyed the other's wit and charm. However, this late at night he knows Francis isn't looking for polite conversation.

_r u up my dear?_

He reads over the message before replying.

_I am now._

Stretching, Ivan lays the phone on his chest, shifting into a more comfortable position. Pulling at his pillow, he presses it against the headboard to make a cushion as he sits up a little. The phone buzzes on his sternum, tickling lightly.

_good i have a problem_

Ivan sorts softly. Oh yes, clearly Francis has a problem, and they both know what it is. He could ignore Francis. He has done that to so many annoyances and problems in the past, but the thought never crosses his mind. Pressing buttons with thick but strangely nimble fingers he calls the Frenchman. He holds it to his ear and listens to the phone ring one, two, three times before there was an answering click.

"Ahh, Mon Russie." Francis' voice nearly purrs through the receiver, as soft and rich as velvet. " 'Ow good of you to call in my time of need." There was an unmistakable slur in the others voice. It makes Francis sound thick, accent a little cumbersome.

"But of course." Ivan answers, the fog of sleep clearing from his brain and tone as he speaks. "I am nothing if not helpful. Now tell me what is troubling you?" It was amazing how quickly his voice becomes light and lilting, coming into its usual pleasant cadence. He doubts the other can even hear the faint annoyance in his words, and if he does surely it will be ignored.

"Well," Francis begins, there is always a story. Even if it is old and overused, there simply has to be a story, a reason for this. It makes things seem more spur of the moment instead of the routine that this is steadily becoming. "Arthur and I went out tonight, and...and it was supposed to be just the two of us. Just a reunion, a date, you know?" He asks. Ivan just hums in response.

"So we went out for drinks and…mon dieu it was really a hole-in-the-wall." Francis' voice sours for a moment Ivan can almost picture him making a face of disgust. "But it was going so well and then Arthur's phone goes off and you'll never guess who it was-"

"Alfred." Ivan says with certainty.

"Ah…well, oui it was Alfred." A soft sigh. "I will never understand…non non, I will never understand…" The words become too soft for a moment to distinguish clearly. Garbled and hushed. The meaning lost but all too clear at once. It seems that once again Alfred overstepped his bounds. The young nation was always sticking his nose where it didn't belong, and a drinking Arthur so easily becomes a sentimental Arthur. It is all too easy to put the pieces together. It's so thinly veil, but that is intentional, is it not?

"…Still so strange, have you noticed that?"

"Hum, what was that?" Ivan chirps, quickly brought back from his mental pondering.

"Their relationship," Francis' emphasizes too greatly, sloppily. Ivan wonders briefly how long the other had continued to drink without his English companion. "It's still so…strange."

Ivan can't help but laugh. As light and crisp as new fallen snow, and just as cold. "Don't be so hypocritical Francis." He chides, giggling to sugarcoat the reprimand. "Do any of us have the right to call other nation's relations strange? I think not."

Francis' laugh is beautiful. Even after all these years it still sounds like bells chiming. High, free, and noticeably hollow. "I suppose you are right mon cher."

"Of course I am." Ivan says with a smile in his voice. "But yes, I have noticed something a bit…different about their relationship…but then we all have our own nuances and way of doing things, Да? Perhaps this is just their way."

"I suppose, but I wish it wouldn't leave me so _aching_ frustrated."

And there it is. He can hear the tipsy voice become rich and sultry.

"Aren't you always?" Ivan teases lightly, too truthfully.

"Non, non." Bell-like laughter trickles through the receiver. "My fires just burn more brightly than others, that's all."

Ivan chuckles in return. It sounds a little too forced and lacking, even to his ears. For a moment, Ivan is unsure whether he's searching for momentum or self-assurance. Then, he decides it doesn't matter and plunges in knowing that words will come.

"Where are you?"

"In my room," Francis replies smoothly. "On my bed, naturally."

"Naturally." Ivan agrees in return. "Arthur is beside you." It should be a question. It isn't.

"Oui."

"Passed out, but of course he would be. You nearly carried him there I'm sure." Ivan adds. A perfect half circle smile curving his lips. The words come easier the more he speaks, too natural almost.

Francis murmurs a soft, wordless yes and Ivan's smile grows. He can see it all too clearly in his mind. With almost no effort, he begins to weave words. "Half-dressed too, right? Your doing no doubt. He was unresponsive the entire time I'm sure, like a rag-doll. He never did hold is liquor well. But still, you tried, and he just slipped away, Да? There one minute, unconscious the next." He chuckles teasingly. "Tell me how am I doing so far?"

"Frighteningly well."

Ivan laughs louder. So easy. "It's a gift."

"I dare say so."

"You have always been so handsome, no…pretty. You're pretty Francis." He continues, gaining confidence with each word. "Even as disheveled as you surely are, maybe that makes you more so. Things are always so beautiful when they start to unravel…" Ivan pauses, letting the words drift, knowing that Francis is subconsciously eating them up. Playing on his vanity has never hurt before. A well-known weakness the Frenchmen has. Ivan finds he can't mock the other for it. If he was a beautiful as Francis, he would surely have the same voracious self-love.

The other hums appreciatively. No doubt there is a smile curling along the Frenchman's lips.

"Your shirt is half undone is it not?"

"Oui."

Ivan clicks his tongue softly. "Well, that's simply not going to do." He can almost hear the rustle of cloth through the receiver. "Ah, ah. Slowly. One button at a time…is it the light blue shirt?"

"Cream."

"Shame, the other brings out your eyes so nicely, but I am sure this one complements your skin." Ivan takes in a breath. "How you remain so skinny, I'll never know. You are so lithe and supple even after all these years. So soft yet hard." He murmurs, allowing his voice to slip into lower tones. Gently easing his voice to become what France wants it to be. Deep, intoxicating. But all things in good time. "I want to touch you, skim your fingers down your chest for me."

He pauses, waiting a moment.

"Feel that?" Ivan asks deftly. "Feel the heat of the fingertips, the fleeting warmth."

A mummer leaks through the receiver.

"Your hand isn't yours, understand. It's mine now." He says evenly. Not a request or a demand, just truth. "It's mine, and I am running my hand down your sternum. Marveling at the warmth of it. Stroking down with my nails, tickles right?"

Only light breaths echo through the earpiece. The spell isn't deep enough yet.

"It's cold in your room; I skim over to your right nipple. Circling around it. Sensitive right?" Ivan is not Ivan anymore. He doesn't know who he is or where the words come from, they just are. He's always been a good actor. Too much for his own good. "I'm running my fingers over it. Is it really hard from the cold? I think not. Round and round, feels good?"

A relaxed purr comes from Francis' end of the line.

"But I think I'd much rather pinch you, clamping down and rubbing it between my fingers."

A gasp comes. Sudden and sharp and sensual.

"Such a nice sound, but I want more. You know me; I've never been very patient with such things." He chuckles. A deepening and dark sound.

"I'm moving downward, to more sensitive ground." Ivan says, the words sounding strangely alien to him. "Cupping and rubbing."

The breaths are beginning to sound a little ragged. Just a little.

"Pressing down with the heel of my hand. The pressure feels good, yes?"

"Oui."

"I can feel you, you want this." The soft laughter spills from Ivan's throat. He sounds different, almost like another person. This husky and deep-toned voice isn't his, but it flows from his mouth with ease.

"I can feel your heat and your hardness. So quick and needy. Even through the fabric it's so noticeable. I am running my nails hard over the cloth. Can you feel me?"

"O-oui." The answer is breathless, panting.

"You're so beautiful when you're flushed, grinding into my hand."

Francis' breathing is terribly noticeable now.

"You want this. I can be nice when I choose. I'm fingering your zipper, slowly, pulling it down…" He smiles. "You like skinny jeans too much."

"W-what?"

"You like them too much, and they are in the way."

"How, how did you kno-"

He laughs freely. A harsh and grating sound. Amused by the sudden confusion and startled tone. "You're wearing skinny jeans and no underwear, I know you Francis, and I'm pulling those sinfully tight pants down your thighs now."

He can hear the cloth moving, sliding down thin, toned legs. How Francis can wear such things he'll never know. He can't help but think that modern fashion fits Francis too well. That or either Francis molds himself to match the most current trends.

He hums into the receiver, pleased. "Beautiful. I am stroking down the jut of your hipbone, following the curve to more vital ground. Fingertips and fingertips only start to fondle the base of you. The lightest touch you can imagine, slowly, slowly, moving up your shaft."

He can hear whines and needy sounds coming in generous waves over the earpiece.

"Leisurely coming up to rub the head. Playing with the foreskin, I know you like that." He says and the words feel foreign as they pass his lips, but they flow easily. Too easily. "You want more?"

"O-oui" The reply is shaky and Ivan is growing tired of one word replies.

"How badly? Answer carefully." He teases; a silent threat laces his voice. Ivan could always hang up, though he knows he won't.

"So badly, I-I want you to touch me, touch me everywhere. Feel me, make love to me." There is genuine lust in the Frenchmen's voice. Even though the words are so cliché and painfully predictable, they are just words to fill-in the script Ivan is weaving. He accepts them and moves on.

"Good. Your reward is a firm touch." His tone is firm and unyielding as he offers the benevolent act. "I'm stroking you, up and down. Pumping you."

A throaty moan.

"Thrust into my hand. I'm squeezing you."

Sounds are cascading from the other end of the phone. Loud and unrestrained. Francis knows he won't wake up his unconscious bed-mate, and even if he could he would still be unashamedly vocal.

"S-so close." He hears amongst the breathy and sweet sounds.

"Let yourself go. I'm doing this for you, massaging, stroking." He croons in his newfound voice. "_Give in_."

Francis is wordless. Nonsensical noises pour from him. He sounds pleasured and wanton, and it all ends with a throaty groan. With that single sound the spell is broken. All his careful work, all that buildup is over and shattered in an instant, broken and now useless. Ivan knows his weaving is done. He waits in silence, listening as Francis' erratic breathing slows, becoming a faint whisper.

"Merci."

"Of course." His voice instantly falls back into it high and lilting normalcy.

There is no goodbye. The awkwardness would still exist whether they bid each other farewell or not, so they don't. There's no longer a point in pretending. A simple click is all he hears. The call has ended, or so the screen on his cellphone tells him. Ivan closes the phone and places it back on the nightstand. He doesn't feel flustered or aroused. No, he just feels used. He's well versed in such a feeling however, and quickly throws it aside.

Ivan rearranges himself, curling into the position he was in before he woke. Sleep greets him once more and Ivan does his best to forget until next time Francis calls upon his services. He has always been a talented actor after all, the talent is simply abused just like everything else.

* * *

Author's notes: I was disappointed with the lack of phone sex; I'll just leave this here. I hope you all enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. This paring is a guilty pleasure of mine and it simply does not get enough love.


End file.
